P s 

1*3 14' 




FRAGMF-' - 

MAKY'CONOE WJI'SON 




Class /.^J fifjUrj 



GoipghtN! 



/ajL^' 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



-r^-3^'^^ 



^<»^.,^ 






Copyright 1914 

By 

Mary Conde fFilson 



NOV 181914 

^Gi.A388437 



HEBSCHMAN & CARDT 



CHICAGO 



l-UJ 



This Little Volume 

of Fragments, 

is dedicated to 

MY BABY GIRL 

in memory of the happy 

Bedtime Story Hour, 

when we sat on the 

Old Door Step, 

under the rose vine, 

in our prairie home. 

—M. C. W. 



A WISH. 

May the softest of winds, 
The bluest of skies, 

And flowers of fairest hue, 
Blow, and bend, and blossom. 

Along life's path for you. 

— M. C. W. 



CHRISTMAS. 

Oh Christmas, Merry Christmas, 
With its carols and its bells, 
Its feasting, and its holly. 

Its greetings, and farewells. 
And all the dear home longings. 

That in every bosom dwells. 

Oh ! Merry, Merry Christmas, 
Ere the shadows barred the way. 

Before the rosy dawnings 

Were all turned to somber gray. 

There is cypress twined with holly 
In many homes today. 

The shadows come and linger 

Beside the empty chair. 
We hear the phantom voices. 

Phantom footsteps on the stair. 
And we almost catch the glimmer 

Of the sunlight on their hair. 



Then all fades away in silence. 

The embers softly shine, 
The Christmas bells are ringing, 

The wind sighs through the pine, 
Oh for one more Merry Christmas, 

As in days of Auld Lang S3^ne. 

— M. C. W. 



LIFE'S SUNSET. 

Thought of the happy days gone by. 

Of the friends we used to know, 
A starry light in life's sunset sky, 
Are blessings still left, as the home draws nigh. 

Beyond the sunset's glow. 

— M. C. W. 



6 



EIGHTY-ONE TODAY. 

Long years in a little boat 

A tiny life was set afloat, 

It drifted in shadow, it drifted in sun, 

Till it reached the harbor of eighty-one, 

Awaiting therein the Master's "Well Done.' 

May the softest winds blow, 

And the brightest sun shine. 
As the years circle 'round. 
Until ninety and nine. 
Have passed o'er the dear head 
Of this mother of mine. 

— M. C. W. 



THE WHITE WINGS OF PEACE. 

A SONG. 

When the banner of peace waves its folds round 

the world, 
When the battle ships all from their moorings 

are hurled, 
No trampling on nations, that are trampled down. 
No slaughter of thousands, for greed and renown, 

Then peace forever and aye. 
May the banner of kindness be ever unfurled. 
The White Wings of Peace, meet in joy 'round 
the world. 
No fierce battle-call, no war-gods cry. 
Only peace, gentle peace, as the years roll by, 
Sweet peace, forever and aye, 
Forever, Forever, and aye. 

When there's no bugle-call at the dawn of the day, 

No lying in trenches with homes far away. 

No more maimed young manhood, and no broken 

homes. 
And no weary waiting for one that ne'er comes. 
Then peace forever and aye. 



May the banner of kindness be ever unfurled, 
The White Wings of Peace, meet in joy 'round 
the world, 

No fierce battle-call, no war-gods cry, 

Only peace, gentle peace, as the years roll by. 

Sweet peace, forever and aye. 

Forever, Forever and aye. 

When costly warships are built nevermore, 
When the wasted millions are saved for the poor, 
N'o call for the legions to stand before God, 
At some ruler's mandate, his arrogant word, 

Then peace forever and aye. 
May the banner of kindness be ever unfurled, 
The White Wings of Peace, meet in joy 'round 
the world, 

No fierce battle-call, no war-gods cry. 

Only peace, gentle peace, as the years roll by 

Sweet peace forever and aye. 

Forever, Forever and aye. 

— M. C. W. 



WHY? 

The little brook goes dancing on, 

Singing its rollicking lay. 
The mighty waves of the ocean 

Swing back and forth alway. 
Why is the little pigmy stream 

So eager for distant lands? 
And why, the giant waves content 

To lap the self -same sands? 

— M. C. W. 



10 



FOE GIELIE'S ALBUM. 

Over life's sunny, shadowy pathway, 
We pass but once, 'tis trne. 

Yet each kindly act by the wayside. 
Will brighten the crown for you. 

Each kindly act by the wayside 

Will shine in the bright To Be. 

"For who so doeth to the least of these. 
The same is done unto Me." 

— M. C. W. 



11 



ONCE AGAIN. 

There is green on the meadow, and green on the 

hill, 
A song in the air, and a song in the rill, 
A chirping from little gray throats so wee, 
Building their home in the tall elm tree. 

In the alluring spring time. 

There's a soft rosy dawn, and a noonday glow. 
And the sweet shining hours, ere the sun sinks low. 
And each tiny plant pushing up its brave head. 
After the long sleep in its little brown bed, 
In the alluring spring time. 

There's a whirr of wings from the sunny south- 
land, 
A swift moving north of the gay feathered band, 
A dash of bright rain on a soft sunny day, 
A longing for woods, and hills far away, 
In the alluring spring time. 

— M. C. W. 



12 



ASLEEP. 

Only to live a life like His, 

And as peacefully lay it down, 

Only to be as worthy as He, 
To wear the golden crown. 

The lowliest called Him friend, 

The highest were proud of His praise. 
But we who loved Him best. 

Alone knew His kindly ways. 

He met all upon a level. 

Parted with all upon the square, 
And now He has joined the Master, 

In the grand lodge over there. 

Our way leads low through the gloom, 
His, high o'er the bright hills. 

Peace, rebellious hearts, 

For so the Father wills. 

— M. C. W. 



13 



THE FOUE BOATS. 

A paper sail caught a breeze from the land 
And was drifted away from a dimpled hand, 
It floated afar o'er the waters wide, 
And never returned on the incoming tide. 
Thus pleasures and plans on which we dote. 
Oft drift away, like the paper boat. 

A youth sends out a Ittle boat. 
With boyish hopes it is set afloat; 
The eddies swirl, and the waters sweep, 
And the little craft goes down in the deep. 
He may reach, and call, it comes nevermore. 
The tiny boat he sent from the shore. 



14 



A boat was launched in life's noonday time. 
With the sturdy hopes of manhood's prime; 
It never reached the far off goal, 
High o^er its decks the breakers roll. 
The winds may sweep o'er the ocean wide, 
They bring him naught on the incoming tide. 

Again, with life's journey almost o'er, 
A little sail slips out from shore; 
It is laden with kindly words, and deeds. 
And drifts wherever the Master leads. 
No need to call, and reach, and yearn. 
This boat will safely to him return. 
It will breast the waves and billows wide. 
And calmly into the harbor glide. 

— M. C. W. 



15 



THE CITY OF LIGHT. 

They have slipped away to the city of light, 
Where the river of life flows so fair, 

No shadows, no darkness, and never no night, 
No earthly burdens or care. 
In that home over there, over there. 

— M. C. W. 



LITTLE THINGS. 

Little things are sometimes greatest. 
Measured by the Master mind, 

A cheery call across the darkness, 

May help some soul an anchor find. 
— M. C. W. 

16 



MARGAEET. 

Busy hands so true and tireless, 
Folded low beneath the sod, 

Happy, happy spirit soaring, 
Far away to meet its God. 

Darling Margaret, angel sister, 
She is waiting over there. 

We have one dear face to meet us, 
Up above "The Golden Stair." 

Shade and sunshine, joy and sorrow. 
Will drift o'er our way awhile, 

But we aj"e sure to gain the right path, 
Guided there by her bright smile. 

Then fold the pale hands very gently, 
Lay the tired heart away. 

Far above among the brightest, 
Margaret lives in endless day. 

— M. C. W. 



17 



A BIRTHDAY WISH. 

Dear sister mine, 

May peace and plenty e'er be thine, 
As life's sun drops low. 

May the harbor lights shine clear. 

As your boat draws near the pier, 

In heaven's bright glow. 

In that land that knows no pain, 
We will meet them all again. 
Of the dear long ago. 

— M. C. W. 



BRAVE. 

Busy and brave, while the shadows fall, 
That herald the last long night. 

Calmly awaiting the ferry to cross. 
To the shining shores of light. 

— M. C. W. 



18 



THE FEATHEEED OECHESTRA. 

The feathered orchestra comes each year, 
With the April buds it is always here; 
We wonder who the leader may be, 
His notes are so full, and glad, and free. 

His song rings out so clear and high, 
Soaring far up in the vaulted sky; 
He is perched on the topmost branch of a tree, 
Up, up aloft, where all may see. 

Far and wide the melody rings, 
As he swings and sings, and sings and swings. 
On the topmost bough of that graceful tree. 
Spilling his notes quite recklessly. 

He flutters his wings, turns his head askew, 
And whirls, and twists, as all great leaders do; 
At his nod, all join in the grand overture. 
Both the rollicking gay, and the very demure. 

They flutter, and sing, so happy and free. 
This little feathered orchestra 
That comes to us with the southern breeze, 
When green fringe, and tassels, deck the trees. 

— M. C. W. 



19 



IF. 

If you cannot chant an anthem, 
To the organ's deep refrain. 

You can softly hum a lullaby, 
To a little child in pain. 

If, in a glittering palace 

You ne'er cross the ocean's foam. 
You can float among the lily beds 

In the little lakes near home. 

If, of all the priceless gems of art, 
No gem belongs to you. 

You have the matchless rainbow, 
Arching across the blue. 

You have the rosy break of day. 

The golden eventide. 
The moonlight dancing on the waves. 

And countless gems beside. 



20 



If no great honors come to you, 
On no pinnacle you stand, 

You can walk "Beside Still Waters" 
Holding a dimpled hand. 

If all the alluring gifts of wealth 
Have been denied to you, 

A blessing on the lowly. 

Echoes the ages through. 

If you cannot write the pages 
Thrilling every nation's ear, 

You can tell the fairy stories. 
Little children love to hear. 

You can gather them about you. 
In the purple twilight dim, 

Innocent as in the ages. 

When they clustered near to Him. 
— M. C. W. 



21 



A THORN. 

The rose is called queen of the garden, 
The lovliest flower that grows ; 

She reigns in all her stately grace, 
Yet in her heart she knows 

Of all earth's beautiful blossoms, 
None hide a thorn but the rose. 



HER OWN. 

A wee new lassie has reached her bright home 

On far Lake Superior's shore; 
With a new love awaiting this dear little dame. 
And a new wardrobe, all ready before she came. 
Why couldn't she have had her own new name? 

Never used in the family before? 

22 



EVEE REMEMBERED. 

That frolicsome clan in my childhood's home, 

Led by a loved father's hand, 
The tender grace of onr mother's face, 

As she smiled on the merry band. 

The glad, free life of my mountain home, 
'Mid the haunts of wild living things. 

Oh! the thoughts that flow, to that bungalow. 
The dear memories it brings. 

That e'er busy spot, my prairie home. 

With its cheery welcome for all. 
Its fruit laden trees, and soft perfumed breeze. 

And the first sound of a tiny footfall. 

My home in that mighty city so fair, 

Where the waves of Lake Michigan roll. 

With its pictures and flowers, and sunshiny hours. 
Then the shadow that darkened all. 



There's another home, just over the way. 

Where the links will be gathered again. 

Each broken strand, of that severed band 
Will be wove in an endless chain. 

— M. C. W. 



23 



THE AWAKENING. 

The silver rain, the lark's sweet song, 
The awakening of buds, asleep so long, 
The flurry of all the feathered band. 
The mossy green that covers the land. 

The promise of flowers, the south wind brings, 
The thrill, and throb, of all living things. 
The brook let loose from its icy stall. 
The blue sky bending over all. 

— M. C. W. 



THE SNOWY PEAKS. 

They lift their heads through storm, and shine, 
Changeless sentinels, night and day. 

Who nover doff their snowy caps, 
To mortals passing away. 

— M. C. W. 



24 



HELPING HER NOT TO CRY. 

A tiny lass tarried when coming from school, 

And was asked the reason why ; 
She answered a dear little girl was lost. 

I was helping her not to cry. 

This dear little maid with the sunny face, 

And the bonnie gray-blue eye, 
Tripping along on her innocent way, 

Helping others not to cry. 

Are there many we meet on the path of life 

Who aim for a goal as high? 
As this little one with her loving heart, 

Helping others not to cry? 

When we reach that land where there are no tears, 

And never a sob or sigh. 
Can we say on our earthly journey here. 

We helped others not to cry? 

When the last great records are all unrolled, 
And we learn the wliere and the why, 

We will find a bright gem in the crown of the one 
Who helped others not to cry. 

— M. C. W. 



25 



THE BIRDS. 

When the sun, mounting ever higher, 

Pours down his garnered gold, 
And the grasp of old king winter 

Is loosening his icy hold. 
Then the birds come loitering homeward, 

The birds, and the balmy breeze. 
Come winging their way from the palm groves. 

That wave by the inland seas. 
Forsaking that tropical country, 

To nest in our northern trees. 

— M. C. W. 



26 



FIFTEEN TODAY. 

The birthdays come and drift away. 
And the bonnie bright years go by, 

The flowers bloom for a summer's day, 
Then fade like a passing sigh. 

Bright sunny locks will turn to silver. 
Girlhood days will glide away, 

But there is a land where dawns forever. 
One golden, glad, eternal day. 

On the bright shores of that land afar. 
It is youth and summer alway. 

And in the far east still beckons that star, 
Our guide to unending day. 

— M. C. W. 



27 



FLEETING. 

Oh, fleeting youth, oh, fleeting springtime, 

Joyous hours on the wing, 
Awaiting us in that glad dawning. 

When breaks the bright eternal spring. 
— M. C. W. 



MY LASSIE. 

May the skies bend bright above her. 

Through all clouds the sunlight gleam. 

Long may she dwell with those who love her. 
And come true her every dream. 

— M. C. W. 



28 



APEIL TWENTIETH. 

Only seven years this little lass 
Has tripped along life's way, 

Our cheery, dancing sunbeam, 
Just seven years old today. 

The diamond is her birthstone, 

The violet her flower, 
And she's as bright and sparkling 

As a sunny April shower. 

And sweet as the dainty violet. 

Peeping through the earth so gray, 

Is this alluring April lassie. 
Just seven years old today. 

May flowers bloom along her path. 
Of the loveliest, fairest sheen. 

And golden skies e'er bend above, 
Our winsome April Queen. 

— M. C. W. 



29 



FEIENDS. 

Friends we have been through all life's years, 

With never a cloud to blight. 
Friends we will be forever, and aye 

'Till one barque, drifts from sight. 
Then over the border, in that bright home 

Friends, while the eternal years roll on. 

— M. C. W. 



OUR YOUTH. 

Our youth has slipped with the tide, 
To the beautious other side, 
It's waiting us there, in that land so fair, 
Where all our lost ones abide. 

— M. C. W. 



30 



THE COST AND GAIN OF WAE. 

Can they count the cost in the lives gone out? 

In each heavy, aching heart? 
In the scars on the breast of old mother earth? 

In the ruined treasures of art? 

When all is done and the war is stilled, 

What is there to show of gain? 
Is the world one iota the richer, 

For the hundreds of thousands slain? 

— M. C. W. 



AT THE LAST. 

When the gates are swung wide for the reckoning, 
Will the one who has murdered most? 

Stand with golden harp, and crown. 
At the head of his slaughtered host? 

Will he earn a high place in the kingdom of light ? 

For the anguish he wrought while on earth. 
He must answer for all, at the Great roll-call. 

With no credits, for royal birth. 

— M. C. W. 



31 



CONTENT. 

Could you come to me once, 

When the dark waves roll deep, 
And the anchor is lost, 

And the dark billows sweep, 
Over, around, on every side, 
A clasp of your hand, would still the tide, 
Though you spoke no word that I might hear. 
Content to know that you were near. 
No more to question, no more to weep, 
Knowing your loving watch you keep. 
No storms could daunt me, no days seem drear, 
No waters engulf, if you only were near. 
The dullest of skies, with rare splendor would 

shine, 
Could I feel once again your hand clasping mine. 

— M. C. W. 



32 



THE OLD HOME. 

The rain still patters on the roof, 

The sun shines in the door, 
The robins warble in the trees, 

As in the days of yore. 
But where are they who laughed and played, 
Beneath the old oak's summer shade? 

The old oak trees were our castles. 
With their turrets green and fair, 

Their acorn cups, our dishes were, 
No china half so rare. 

And their boughs held the swing, where we 
floated so high. 

Ear away, in the soft summer sky. 

The dear old home is broken. 

Scattered the merry band. 
No smiling welcome at the door. 

No clasp of loving hand. 
Where are they all, who romped and played. 
Beneath the old oak's summer shade? 



33 



Are they straying among the Evergreen Hills? 

From every care set free ? 
Do their footsteps fall on the silver sands, 

Beside the Jasper Sea? 
Where, oh, where, are they all tonight? 
The dear ones, gone beyond our sight. 

The curtain soon will be lifted. 

The journey is nearly done, 
My boat will soon be across the stream, 

Its oars lying one o'er one. 
I shall soon again be with those who played, 
Beneath the old oak's summer shade. 

— M. C. W. 



IN VAIN. 

Your way may be light, or dark. 
The sunshine may fall, or the rain, 

You'll reach in vain for the clasp of her hand, 
Through the coming years again. 

— M. C. W. 



34 



HEE BIBLE. 

The leaves lie loose, and yellow, and old, 

Between the covers dim. 
The dear hands that turned them are folded for aye, 
Low under the grass, while the years glide by, 

Awaiting the summons from Him. 

I can see her dear form at eventide. 

As she sits in her little chair, 
With a smile on her face, and a dreamy look. 
As she turns the leaves of this well-loved book. 

While the soft light falls on her hair. 

The pages are worn and the corners turned down. 

Marking many a promise given. 
She would ponder them o'er in the lamplight's 

glow. 
Those promises made so long ago, 

To the tossed, and tempest driven. 

One twilight far, oh, far away, 

She laid it down with a sigh. 
The staff had been taken she leaned upon. 
She slipped away where her dear ones had gone. 

Far away to the mansions on high. 

— M. C. W. 



35 



THE AUTUMN BATTLE. 

The army of King Goldenrod 

Has captured all the land, 
With their yellow plumes a-waving, 

On every hill they stand. 

They are massed in every valley, 

Gathered in every glen. 
Ten thousand times ten thousand, 

Of these yellow coated men. 

All under old King Goldenrod, 
Marching them on to doom, 

With their yellow banners flying. 
Waving their yellow plume. 

The Frost King on his glittering steed. 
Came out of the north one night. 

And the yellow host was vanquished, 
Xot one saw morning light. 



36 



Silent and short was the battle, 

Low in the dust they lie. 
Each golden head, bows its tattered plume, 

Beneath the midnight sky. 

Of all the mighty legions, 

That crowded hill and vale, 
Not one of all the countless throng. 

Was left to tell the tale. 

In numbers there is ever strength. 

Has been an ancient boast. 
But this single king with his icy breath, 

Destroyed the yellow host. 

But are they dead, or just asleep? 

Under the Frost King's reign. 
When October flaunts her red and gold, 

The army lives again. 

— M. C. W. 



37 



ONCE. 

There are those we meet once in this life, 

Meet once, clasp hands and pass on; 

There is something left behind that lasts, 
Though days, and months, and years, may pass, 

(O'er and o'er) to recall that one. 

— M. C. W. 



THE YEARS. 

The fleet years come and go, 

And turns the gold to gray, 
No hand can stay old father time, 

And glad youth glides away. 

Lasting and bright be its memories' ray. 

— M. C. W. 



38 



THE VERY BEST. 

The birthdays come, the birthdays go, 

And girlhood slips away. 
The bright flowers bloom, the soft winds blow, 

But nothing dear will stay. 

The very best ^neath the bending sky, 
The best on this old earth's sphere. 

Of all that is good, and kind, and true, 
I ask for you, my dear. 

— M. C. W. 



39 



WHO LIFTS THE GATES. 

A LULLABY. 

Who lifts the gates to the baby band ? 
And waves them on with a fairy wand, 
As they drift away to Bylow Land? 

To happy Bylow Land. 
Who lowers the wee white curtains down? 
Over eyes of blue, and eyes of brown, 
Ere they journey off to Bylow Town, 

To dreamy Bylow Town. 
There they tarry along the golden way, 
Where flowers bloom, and angels stray, 
With the bare-foot band, 'till rosy day 

Calls them from Bylow Land, 

From dreamy Bylow Land. 



40 



Who pilots them toward the Silver Sea? 
Where the tiny boats rock merrily, 
Awaiting the myriad travelers wee. 

All bound for Bylow Land. 
Who guides their little wandering feet? 
Through the slyvan paths of dreamland sweet, 
Where the earthly shores and heaven meet. 

In far off Bylow Land. 
There they tarry along the golden way. 
Where flowers bloom, and angels stray, 
With the bare-foot band, 'till rosy day, 

Calls them from Bylow Land, 

From dreamy Bylow Land. 

— M. C. W. 



41 



LOYAL. 

The seasons from summer to winter glide, 
But friendship, steady and pure. 

Never changes its roses for snow, 
But will ever and ever endure. 

Friends who have stood the test of time 

Through years, since childhod days. 

From them, a hearty clasp there will be, 
And a cheery, loyal word for me, 

"Till the parting of the ways." 

— M. C. W. 



42 



SEPTEMBEE 23ED, 1911. 

The little girls of a far-off day, 

With their shining hair all turned to gray, 

Met together once more. 
There were other boats in this little fleet, 
When joyous voices glad and sweet, 

Eang out in days of yore. 

But some have slipped to the other side- 
Drifted away with the outgoing tide. 

No sound from their phantom oar. 
But still the fleet sails on, and on. 
The boats they drop out, one by one. 

And glide to the other shore. 

They slip away with a wave and a smile. 
But they never return from that far-off isle. 

Though we call to them o'er and o'er. 
Who will be the last to stand. 
All alone of this little band. 

When all have gone before? 

— M. C. W. 



43 



IN THE MORNING. 

When the breeze waves the flowers in the morning. 

And the birds are singing near. 
May that last low call then come for me, 

That I alone shall hear. 

Shall hear, and will start on that journey, 

In the boat that is moored for me, 
That sails where none may follow, 

O'er an unknown, trackless sea. 

Will the dear ones across the darkness. 
Throw a light o'er the water for me? 

Will I find the way to the loved and lost? 
To that heavenly home, and Thee? 

— M. C. W. 



44 



THE MOUNTAINS. 

The everlasting giant peaks 
Clad in eternal snow, 

They stand in changeless majesty- 
While generations go. 

Oh! the grandeur of the mountains, 

The glory of the hills. 
The leaping of the torrents, 

And the rippling mountain rills. 

The dainty footed antelope, 
On the flower dotted plain, 

The lightly bounding deer, and doe, 
I see them all again. 

The sun low dropping in the west 
Where the lengthening shadows fall. 

The sweet peace, and the quiet, 
That hovers over all. 

— M. C. W. 



45 



A GENTLE WOED. 

Each gentle word, each kindly deed, 
Each cheerful smile by thee, 

Is locked away in the vaults above, 
Under a golden key. 

— M. C. W. 



ALWAYS. 

At rosy morn, at sunny noon, 

At every closing day, 
May Heaven watch o'er my bonnie lass 

Where'er her footsteps stray. 

— M. C. W. 

46 



MAY HEAVEN'S SMILE SHINE ON HEE 
PATHWAY. 

The merriest little sunbeam, 

Is our darling little girl. 
With her little feet a-skipping. 

And her dimpled hands a- twirl. 

She's the dearest little morsel. 

That is dwelling on the earth. 
No daintier little maiden, 

Was ever given birth. 

When she is absent from us, 

Nothing can take her place, 
Although she is so wee a tot. 

She fills so large a space. 

You can never find her equal 

Though you wander far and near. 

You may search the wide world over. 
For another Dottie Dear. 

May Heaven's Smile Shine on Her Pathway, 

Angel arms around her twine, 
Naught but joy, e'er be the portion. 

Of this little lass o' mine. 

— M. C. W. 



47 



ACROSS THE YEARS. 

There's a wonderful isle called the "Used to Be," 
Where white cloud ships sail on a fair blue sea, 
And the sweetest of songs drift to you, and me. 
Across the months and years. 

It is sometimes called the Long Ago, 
And only the balmiest zephyrs blow, 
And the music is ever soft and low. 
In that land across the years. 

A bridge arches o'er to that beautiful isle, 
It is thronged with voyagers all the while. 
They pass, and repass, with never a smile, 
Journeying across the years. 

These phantoms traveling o'er memory's way. 
Dwelt on that isle in a far-off day, 
When youth and life was bright and gay. 
In that land across the years. 



48 



Those vanished days bright memories bring, 

Of the school in the woods with its grapevine 

swing, 
Oh ! those happy voices how they sing. 
Across the months and years. 

Few, and far scattered, that little band, 
Nearly all have reached the unknown land. 
Longer, and longer, grows the strand, 
Eeaching across the years. 

The mystery is solved for ns, one by one. 
When there's no more earthly lessons to con. 
And no more earthly robes to don, 
And no more, months, and years. 

— M. C. W. 



49 



LIFE'S SOXGS GROW SWEETER. 

As the years roll around and the birthdays pass, 
May heaven be kind to my bonnie lass, 
Through green hills, and valleys, may her path- 
way lie, 
And life's song grow sweeter as the years speed by. 

— M. C. W. 



ONLY HERE. 

There are birthdays only in this little life, 

No years on the changeless shore. 
Just the joyous youth, and sweet content, 
And the bow of promise the Father bent, 
O'er that home forevermore. 

— M. C. W. 
50 



MODERN WONDERS. 

To soar aloft like a bird on the wing, 
In a ship that flies like a living thing. 

To hear voices hundreds of miles away, 
And comprehend all they may say. 

Motoring o'er rough roads, up hill, and down 
Through highways, and byways, from town to 
town. 

Erecting structures reaching so high, 
One may greet the airships passing by. 

The marvelous tones we often hear. 
When no musician, or singer, is near. 

To skillfully cast the earth aside. 

That vessels from ocean to ocean may glide. 

Hearing a voice that from earth has gone. 
Speak in the old familiar tone. 

To signal (with no connecting link) 
For help, when a ship is about to sink. 
Are some, of the modern wonders. 

But the most wonderful ivonder of all, will be. 
When peace is proclaimed, from sea, to sea. 
And when two or more nations disagree, 
To settle all. Peacefully. 

— M. C. W. 

51 



NEVEEMOEE. 

The summer flowers will blow. 
The winter sift its snow, 

The sunlight fall as brightly. 
And the tides will ebb and flow, 
But when youthful days are o'er 
They come back nevermore. 

Though winter winds, and summer sun. 
Beat long upon life's shore. 

— M. C. W. 



52 



FIFTY YEAES. 

Dear Friends of Auld Lang Syne, 

Dear friends of the long ago, 
You have reached the isle of Fifty Years, 
With many smiles, and fewer tears. 

Than most wanderers here below. 

A little unbroken household band. 

Through the changes of fifty years. 
When you meet together, all are there. 
With never a break or a vacant chair. 
With never a cause for tears. 

When you leave your isle in life's sunset time, 

For the last sail over the bay 
May the harbor lights shine clear and bright. 
And the pilot guide your boat aright, 

•To the land of endless day. 

— M. C. W. 



53 



FOE ALL. 

Sunlight, Moonlight, and Starlight, 

Gentle winds, and the soft spring rains. 

The flowers along the woodland way. 

The balmy air of a summer day. 

The hum of bees, the bird's sweet song. 

The gurgling brook as it hurries along. 

The giant waves as they lap the shore, 

Belong to all forevermore. 

These are the blessings no one can touch, 

Can never grasp in their greedy clutch, 

To swell ill-gotten gains. 

— M. C. W. 



54 



TRANSPLANTED. 

Two dimpled hands are folded, 
Two white lids closed for aye, 

Two baby feet are journeying, 
To their far-off home on high. 

A pair of little crumpled shoes, 

A tress of shining hair. 
The little toys our darling loved, 

The little empty chair. 

The tiny grave on the sunny slope. 
Where soft green grasses grow. 

Is all that's left of our wee white one. 
Asleep so far below. 

Never again will the smiling lips, 

Answer our words of love. 
That baby voice is mingled with 

The angel band above. 

— M. C. W. 



55 



ONE WAY TO END ALL WAR. 

There is a just way to settle it, 

With less misery^ by far. 
When their majesties' fur gets rumpled, 

Let them have a rulers' war. 

This would leave no devastated land, 
No country drenched in blood, 

No widows' pitiful moaning cry. 
No helpless begging food. 

No ruined relics ages old. 

That can never be replaced. 
No treasures burned, and squandered. 

No peaceful homes laid waste. 

No hordes of maimed and broken men. 

The saddest sight of all. 
Three-fourths of whom went unwillingly. 

Not at their country's call. 

God never meant this bright green earth 

For a human slaughter pen, 
But whereon to raise our daily bread, 

A last couch to slumber in. 



56 



They call on God for His blessing 

For desolating the land, 
Call on Him! for strength to murder more, 

Ask the help of His powerful hand. 

They burn, and pillage, and destroy. 
And call themselves Christians still. 

No Christian murders a brother. 
For an imaginary ill. 

Think you that the Almighty, 

When He said, ''Thou shalt not kill/' 

Meant we might slaughter legions, 
And seek His blessing still? 

Each, and all, they cry to Grod, 

For help till war shall cease; 
Forgetting there is no God of War, 

Only a God of Peace. 

— M. C. W. 



57 



WAITING. 

Where eternity's dawn breaks over the hills, 

They are waiting for you, and me, 
Where the light falls on the rippling waves 

Of that wondrous Crystal Sea, 
Each little white sail that glides over its foam, 
Is another voyager reaching home. 

— M. C. W. 



GRADUATION. 

May lovlier flowers than I can bring, 

To twine in your sunny hair. 
Be yours when dawns the eternal spring. 

In that bright home over there. 

— M. C. W. 
58 



YOUR MOTHER. 

Only a little journey, 

Why dread the crossing o'er? 
Only a little journey, 

And she's safe on the other shore. 

Yet we shudder at the boatman, 
Who comes with his phantom bark, 

To bear away our loved ones. 
O'er the river so cold and dark. 

But within that wondrous city. 

With its promised mansions fair. 
You will meet your sainted mother. 

She is waiting over there. 

Her gentle, loving, patient face. 

Her voice so kind and true. 
Is waiting in that far-off home 

Beyond the bending blue. 

Where the blossoming shore meets the silver sea, 
On her brow the bright crown she has won. 

You will meet that gentle mother again. 
When all your earth-tasks are done. 

— M. C. W. 
59 



THE NEW BABY 

We wonder what kind of a road, little man. 

Lies before those tiny feet? 
Is it through sweet valleys where flowers grow ? 
Or over rough hills, where sleet, and snow. 

And stormy winds ever beat? 

Will life be joyous from dusk until dawn? 

And from morn 'till starry eve? 
Will care and trouble ne'er cross the way; 
Of this dear wee laddie who came today, 

His, little life pattern to weave? 

No one can tell, for no one can know, 

We will pray that his skies may be fair, 
That the days, and years, of his life roll along^ 
(Like the musical notes of a grand sweet song) 
With no heavy burdens to bear. 

— M. C. W. 



60 



FEIENDS AFAE. 

When far aloft through her starry realm. 

The moon rolls her silver car, 
And the sweet flowers sway in the soft night wind, 

I dream of the friends afar. 



I see them again, as I saw them 

No distance ever can mar. 
The picture thrown across limitless space. 

To their happy homes afar. 

I am met with a loving clasp of the hand. 

As the truly welcome are. 
And I sit and chat in the old cozy way. 

With these loyal friends afar. 

Where are those friends w^e can meet nevermore 

'Neath shining moon or star? 
When we dream of them with a longing untold. 

Are they near us? or afar? 

Roll on shining moon in your path of light. 

Among the glittering stars. 
And carry a breath of these flowers tonight, 

Leaning o'er your silver bars, 
To Friends afar. 

— M. C. W. 
61 



EVERY YEAR. 

From under winter's snowy coverlet, 
And young springs carpet green, 
And the gold grain fields of summer, 
Comes forth our autumn queen. 

October trails her royal robes 

Along the king's highway, 
Their purple, gold, and crimson sheen. 

Is veiled in misty gray. 

As she strays through forests and o'er hills 
They doff their emerald green. 

And don the crimson and the gold, 
The regalia of their queen. 

Only a fleeting life of pomp 

Is bright October's day. 
When stormy old November 

Bids her trappings laid away. 



62 



A gale from the icy northland 

Bringing sleet, and snow, and rain, 

Fades the royal hues from the young queen's 
gown, 
Leaving them gray, and worn again. 

And every year as the months roll 'round, 
This same drama has been played, 

October dons the robes of a queen. 
Then the dress of a beggar maid. 

— M. C. W. 



IN THE SUNSHINE. 

In the sunshine, little lassie, 

Where the fairest flowers bloom, 

May it be thy lot to tarry, 

'Till the Father calls, come home. 

— M. C. W. 



63 



THE VICTORS. 

Two little gray wrens were seeking a home, 

They scurried the country o'er. 
But they always came back to a little brown house, 

With a little round hole for a door. 

It was placed afolt on an arbor post, 

In the shade of an old pine tree. 
With flowers on every side of it, 

And clear water, and food were free. 

There was one drawback, to this little home. 

Perfect, as it seemed to be. 
The sparrows determined the wrens should not 
huild. 

In the shade of the old pine tree. 

These brave little builders carried the day, 
They defied the quarrelsome throng; 

And soon the little new nest was made. 
And twin eggs in it, ere long. 



64 



Then the little lady-bird hovered them o'er, 

As happy, as happy conld be. 
While his highness sang her his sweetest song, 

Perched aloft in the old pine tree. 

Time rolled along, two tiny gray heads 
Peeped out of the little round door. 

Then a clear and exultant melody 
From his majesty's throat did pour. 

The sparrows listened, and listened again. 
To the glad notes ringing so free. 

Then, they 'spied their tiny conqueror. 
Perched aloft in the old pine tree. 

— M. C. W. 



65 



THE LAST EXIT. 

The dweller in the jungle, 
The monarch in lordly state. 

One drops his rags, the other his crown. 
And as equals, pass this gate. 

The little child with sunny hair. 
The old who have lingered late, 

Are passing daily, one by one. 
Through this same narrow gate. 

The mighty, honored ones, of earth, 

Those that are truly great, 
Must pass this lowly exit — 

This little narrow gate. 

The beggar comes empty handed. 
The king of his wealth may prate. 

He must leave his gold, and jewels rare. 
And scepterless pass this gate. 

All of earth's countless millions. 
Must meet the common fate, 

There's no gilded door for the lofty, 
Only this lowly gate. 



66 



Not one, can elude the summons, 
Though he offer a bribe as great, 

As the wealth of all earth's kingdoms, 
He still must pass this gate. 

The way may be smooth or rough, 
Our path may be crooked or straight. 

Still many a helping hand we may lend, 
Ere we reach this little gate. 

Which is open for all at our journey's end, 
And we pass at our true schedule rate. 

If the lamp of kindly deeds light the way, 
'Twill shine heyond the gate. 

There is silence, beyond its portal. 
We may linger, and listen, and wait, 

No faintest sigh, no last goodbye 
Is wafted back through this gate. 

— M. C. W. 



67 



CHRISTMAS MUSINGS. 

Where are now those glad young faces? 

Where those happy friends of mine? 
That tripped along life's sunny pathway, 

In the days of Auld Lang Syne? 
In that far-off happy country, 

Do they hear our Christmas chime? 

Hark! the voices ringing gaily, 
Clearer than the sweet bells' chime, 

List ! the young feet tripping lightly. 
Echo of that far-off time. 

Again the dreams, and chimes of Christmas, 
Bring back the days of Auld Lang Syne. 

— M. C. W. 



68 



DREAMS. 

The fair young moon, and the silver stars, 
Shine down on the earth as of yore, 

But their light has grown pale, since his smile 
went out, 
And rests on us now nevermore. 

If only in dreams I could see his dear face, 

In dreams clasp his hand so true; 
If only in dreams I might hear him say 

I am waiting, my dear one, for you. 

But the old heartache clings, and the dark years 
go by. 

As I struggle against the tide, 
But the clouds will lift, and brightness will come, 

When they lay me down by his side. 

— M. C. W. 



THE LITTLE LOG BUNGALOW. 

Of all the happy days gone by. 
Those touched with a fairy gleam, 

Were passed in a four-room bungalow, 
On a Rocky Mountain stream. 

It was in the early spring time, 
When life was fair and young, 

^Ere all its flowers were gathered, 
Or all its songs had been sung. 

Six hundred times the fair new moon 

Has swung her sickle low, 
And fifty times the Christmas bells 

Have pealed across the snow. 

Since we journeyed o'er the desert sands. 
And camped in a mountain grove, 

With countless flowers at our feet, 
And snowy peaks above. 

We roamed the hills and mountains. 

In that bright, sunny land. 
And through the gulches and ravines. 

We clambered hand in hand. 



70 



We entered the tiny wigwams, 

Where the red men abide, 
We climbed above the fleecy clouds 

And gazed on their upper side. 

We watched the antelope and deer. 

So fearless and so free. 
Skimming the blossoming valley. 

Swift as a honey bee. 

And free, as the floating clouds, o'erhead, 
Free, as the mountain breeze. 

Or softly flowing waters, 
Beneath the hemlock trees. 

We picked the luscious berries red. 
That grew on the mountain wide. 

We rested 'neath the evergreens. 
And chatted side by side. 

And built us fairy castles rare, 
Of the days that were to come, 

When we should wander back again. 
To our far eastern home. 

Little we dreamed the golden days 

Slipping away so fast. 
Were the dearest, fairest, sweetest. 

And all too bright to last. 



71 



I have lived amid the city's whirl 

For many, and many a year. 
But the shadows are growing longer, 

The mooring place seems near. 

And my thoughts they turn with longing. 
To that little mountain home, 

But should I find its paths once more 
I must tread them all alone. 

Could I choose five years of life again, 
It would be that sunlit dream, 

In The Little Old Log Bungalow, 
Beside the mountain stream. 

— M. C. W. 



EVENTIDE. 

The voyage 'most o'er, life's sun drooping low. 
May sweet peace enfold thee, 
And soft be the glow. 
Of life's eventide. 

-^M. C. W. 



72 



THE FLOWEES. 

They have gone to sleep in their frozen bed. 

Cuddled nnder their blanket of snow, 
The fairy flowers of the summer time 

Are now sleeping, deep and low. 
When the robin calls, in the April days. 

They will answer him, we know. 
And pushing aside the old brown earth, 

Set all the world aglow. 

— M. C. W. 



A BIRTHDAY GEEETING. 

As the years speed on and the shadows grow. 
May the dearest, and brightest, and best below, 
Encircle thy path wherever you go. 
Oh bonnie friend o' mine. 

— M. C. W. 
73 



THE VOICE. 

Oh the kindly words of the dear old days, 
How they ring in my heart for aye, 

The longing to hear the dear tones again. 
Will be stilled when I pulseless lie. 

So far away to that wonderful land, 

And the dark river rolls between, 
No song, or sigh, comes back from that shore, 

No glimpse of its splendor is seen. 

But somewhere, I know, in that happy throng. 

Is the voice we loved so dear. 
The gentle look, the kindly smile. 

The ready words of cheer. 

Gloriously bright all life's darkness would seem, 

As sunrise over the sea. 
Could I know, when the light of earth went out, 

The light of that smile, I would see. 

— M. C. W. 



74 



BEYOND THE TWILIGHT STAR. 

The years they come, the years they go, 

Our bright hopes drift away. 
The tides they ebb, the tides they flow. 
But they never bring back the long ago, 

Never, the dear lost day. 

There is a land where dreams come true. 

Beyond the twilight star. 
Where no rough winds blow, no breakers beat, 
And the waves ripple soft o'er our tired feet. 

When we have crossed the bar. 

The bright days, and bright dreams. 

Of the long, long ago. 
We will meet them again in eternity's glow. 
They are waiting afar, beyond the star. 

Beyond the twilight star. 

— M. C. W. 



75 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 

018 482 480 2 ^ 



